Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

But I have to admit I’m worried. I’ve been away for a year, and while Jimmy’s getting on with life at home, I’m living a completely separate life from him now, and it’s a life I’m really enjoying. Worse still, I’m smitten. Yes, I’ve been seeing someone behind his back, and though I think he knows, I’m dreading the talk we’re going to have to have about this third wheel. My new lover is complicated, schizophrenic, unwieldy, fast, and furious. In short, I’m in love with a crazy bitch named Tokyo. And she takes a back seat to nobody.

Over the past year during out periodic phone calls I’ve tried my best to convince Jimmy of my baby’s otherworldly charms.

“I saw a bunch of young girls dressed up as Victorian England-era prostitutes in Harajuku today!” I’d say.

“Interesting,” he’d reply after a long pause, during which he’s sucking in a massive bonghit.

“Oh my God, I got groped by a gross old man in a rush-hour train in Shinjuku!” I’d beam.

“Uh-huh,” he’d reply after drinking down a couple spoonfuls of NyQuil.

“Vitamin drinks in tiny cans are really popular here! I just drank three and chased them with vodka and then ate a big sushi!” I’d rave.

“Yeah, can you send me some money?” he’d respond. “I need paintbrushes.”

Tokyo is a hard sell for Jimmy. At least on the phone. He’s jealous of her. To him she’s nothing more than a home-wrecker. A harlot, a vixen, a temptress in a foreign land with her restless arms all over his boyfriend. He knows that every day I’m walking her streets, slurping her noodles, shoving my big feet into her tiny bathroom slippers, pushing myself onto her trains, sliding in and out and in and out and in and out of her underground tunnels. And yes, I am doing all of that. But when I get Jimmy over here, he’ll do it too. And he’ll love it. He’ll fall for her just like I have.

Oh yes, it will be an epic, sexy, disgusting ménage à trois. Two charming men. One hot city.

I sit breathlessly at the arrivals gate at Narita Airport. After waiting for a while for him to deplane, I decide to go get some coffee from a nearby kiosk. After paying, I turn around, take a sip, and burn my lip, for down the ramp comes Jimmy, his shiny head sweating and shining like a beacon, his face a desperate shade of gray, his huge tote bag slipping slowly off his shoulder. He weaves in and out of the people in his way, and once he reaches the arrivals lobby, I rush up to greet him as he passes me by and walks out the automatic doors and into the fresh air, the first he’s felt on his face in probably about seventeen hours.

“Jimmy!” I yelp as the doors open for me to exit. He finishes lighting his cigarette and looks at me with an exhausted smile. I give him a hug. He sure is clammy.

“Sorry. I really needed one.”

“That’s fine. How was your flight?”

He looks at me as if to say, “How do you think it was?” and then he takes a very long drag on his cigarette.

I start pinching his cheeks and lightly slapping them because that’s one thing I do to show my affection. He rolls his eyes, exhales a bunch of smoke, smiles, and squeezes my butt, which is what he does to show his affection.

He finishes his cigarette, puts it out, and in full view of all the other desperate smokers standing outside with us, we engage in a proper public display of affection. (No tongue. We’re not animals.)

“I’m really happy to see you,” he says.

“It’s great to see you too. I’ve missed you so mu-wait, did you bring me my Cajun chicken biscuit?” I ask.

“I brought two,” he nods, his eyes brightening.

I grab and squeeze his hand. “I’ve missed you so much!”

We get on the train from Narita heading into the city. Since Narita is a town well outside the city limits of Tokyo proper, it’s a long ride and gives us a chance to catch up and for Jimmy to see some of the Japanese countryside. As we chat, I can see that Jimmy’s head is spinning as he gazes out the window at the landscape gliding past us.

“Them’s artistic wheels be turnin’,” I say to myself in my best North Carolina drawl as he sits quietly, his eyes passionately drinking in the view.

After a few minutes of silence, I ask him what he thinks of what he sees. He appears to have recovered somewhat from the twilight zone of the trans-Pacific flight and could very well be prepared to offer some solid criticism.

“Well,” he begins, “the airport was, honestly, kind of plain. I was disappointed. Light yellow walls accented with blonde wood panels? Beige carpet? I expected better from Japan. And the place was way too well lit.”

“Hmm. I suppose you make a good point,” I chime in. “Although I didn’t notice any of the stuff you just mentioned. The walls were yellow? Please continue.”

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he continues.

“Really? So have you!”

“Drugs and loneliness. But that shirt is way too tight. I’m surprised you can breathe in that thing.”

“Jimmy, it’s the biggest T-shirt I’ve been able to find here.”

“You should have told me. I could have brought some. Anyway, you should probably throw that shirt away before you come home. It’ll scare the cat.”

“How is Stella?”

“She’s been talking a whole bunch of shit about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she said you treat her like a redheaded bastard cat and you need to at least send her some Japanese catnip or something. She also called your momma a bitch. She’s pretty pissed.”

“Aw, bless her. So, have you got anything positive to say about your trip so far?”

“Actually, yes,” he begins, looking out the window. “The quality of light is just brilliant, and the trees actually look exactly like they do in the Japanese watercolors I’ve seen.”

“Good, good.”

“And the way all these rice paddies and fields are laid out, it kind of reminds me of a painting Van Gogh did of the French countryside.”

“I’m sure the French would slap in you in the face for saying that.”

“Whatever. I’d slap them right back.”

We get to my apartment in Koenji and unload all of Jimmy’s stuff. Then we spend a manic ten minutes having gay sex and then we take a big gay nap. When I wake up, Jimmy’s rifling through his bag searching for something.

“What’re you looking for?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

Jimmy pulls a fork out of a balled-up pair of socks. “Found it. Can we go eat?”

We eat at a local Yoshinoya restaurant, a cheap fast-food chain where the specialty is what is called “beef bowls”-thin slices of seasoned beef over rice. Jimmy cannot hide his enthusiasm for the ordering protocol, which involves very little human contact and admirable efficiency: you walk in, put your money into a machine, push a button, get a receipt, sit down at a semicircular counter, and hand the receipt to the enthusiastic worker behind the counter. Your beef bowl and miso soup will be with you in a matter of seconds.

“Is Jimmy impressed?” I ask as he digs in with his fork.

“Yes, he is. Pass me the ginger.”

One point for my mistress Tokyo: she makes a quick, sensible, delicious meal.

After our late lunch we take the train to Shibuya because I want to show Jimmy Tokyo’s crazy side, the side that cakes its face with panda makeup, bleaches it’s hair until it looks like a pile of straw, and slips on its pencil skirt, rainbow knee-socks, and foot-high platform boots and thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable state in which to face the world.

We exit Shibuya Station along with 2.3 million other people, 90 percent of whom are at least ten years younger than us. Shibuya is where the young people of the greater Tokyo area come to play videogames, smoke cigarettes, visit “love hotels,” and, in a financial pinch, sell their underwear to appreciative and deep-pocketed salarymen. I ask Jimmy if he feels like doing any of these things.